


dreaming, eventually

by feistycadavers



Category: Motionless in White (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Reader-Insert, Self-Insert, Spiders, bro just read the summary/author note i'm so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:15:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24697417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feistycadavers/pseuds/feistycadavers
Summary: “What’s in these?” Chris asks, but apparently you don’t need to answer because he jumps back a bit. “Oh, shit!Fuck.Tarantulas?”idk what to say it's literally just self insert comfort fic i wrote for my goddamn self where reader has tarantulas and chris is their neighbor and one of their tarantulas has a bad molt and chris helps save her. i know; i hate me too
Relationships: Chris "Motionless" Cerulli/Reader
Comments: 17
Kudos: 28





	dreaming, eventually

**Author's Note:**

> god don't LOOK at me
> 
> i was encouraged to write this and then i was encouraged to post it you know who you fuckin are
> 
> so i have tarantulas and sometimes when i have the gay yearning emotion i honestly just think about how nice it'd be to have someone care about me enough to put their arachnophobia aside to still show up for me and this is literally all this is. yes this is the fucking shit i fantasize about. leave me A LOAN
> 
> uhhhh the only real content warning i have here is there's obviously talk about tarantulas and tarantula molting. almost tarantula death but i doubt anybody other than me cares about that. yes i would be this emotional if one of my Ts had a bad molt. i was inconsolable for days when one of mine passed last year okay. those are my CHILDREN. if you want a visual on the species i'm talking about here she's a theraphosa stirmi and you can google if you want but just think big ass brown spider. just. big motherfucker. absolute unit. you don't need to know a lot about tarantulas to read this tho just like know that they molt to grow similar to how snakes shed but the exoskeleton they shed off is hard. you can google that too but uh trypophobia warning if you do.
> 
> also if you ever want me to infodump about tarantulas at you. my dms are open. i like to show people pictures of my spiders just like normal people show others pictures of their dog.
> 
> title is from until the pain is gone by not my god which you should stream
> 
> comment moderation is on because please be nice i will cry if yr mean to me ;~;

It’s moving day. Your first studio apartment. The few pieces of furniture you have are in place, your bed, the couch, the dresser, the display shelf for the tarantulas. Now it’s just a matter of sorting boxes. Unpacking the necessities so you can finish up tomorrow. You’ve left the door propped open, more so out of forgetting to close it than on purpose, some music playing on your phone as you make your bed, push the box labeled BATHROOM into the single bathroom.

As you’re unboxing the DISHES box, there’s the sound of knuckles knocking against the door jamb. You flip your head around to see someone in the doorway, tall, tattooed, androgynous. Long dark hair.

“Hey,” the person says, leaning into the doorway. “I’m your new neighbor across the hall in 14.”

“Oh,” you say quickly, because you must be staring a little. You put down the plates you’re holding and rush over, offering your hand, introducing yourself. “I’d offer for you to come sit down and have a glass of wine or something but--”

“I’m Chris,” he says. “And it’s alright. I don’t drink. Do you want some help?”

(By all means, you should not be letting this guy in, but. He seems harmless enough. You already got the knife block out anyway. And he’s wearing girl jeans. So.)

“I don’t really need help unpacking, but I wouldn’t mind the company,” you say, because. Well. It’s weird being in here on your own. You’re used to the noise of living with other people. “Y’know. If you wanted to chat.” Chris smiles, nods, steps inside, leans against the counter.

“So they finally got someone willing to take the dreaded apartment number 13,” Chris remarks, looking around. You laugh.

“Yeah, they practically begged me to take it,” you say, as you’re deciding which cabinet to put your extensive mug collection in. “It doesn’t bother me. I’m a little weird, so I think it’s cool. Certainly not bad luck.”

“I’m also a little weird, but that was probably evident,” Chris says. You smile over your shoulder at him.

“Weird finds weird,” you say, and he smiles back at you, which. He’s cute. Shit. “I may be a grown ass adult but my wardrobe is still at least 75% band shirts. So.”

“God, same,” Chris says, wiping a hand down his face. “You moved in on a rare day I’m not wearing one.” He wanders over towards the couch, his eyes traveling around.

“Didn’t want to possibly ruin one,” you say, “so. Old work shirt it is.” You toss the now empty box back towards its siblings, pulling the other kitchen box towards you. Chris is now over by the tarantula cabinet, leaned over.

“What’s in these?” Chris asks, but apparently you don’t need to answer because he jumps back a bit. “Oh, shit! _Fuck_. Tarantulas?”

“Yeah,” you say, sympathetic to his scare. “I probably should’ve warned you. Sorry.”

“Holy shit,” Chris says, planting his hands on his knees, looking into one of the glass enclosures. “Like, I’m terrified, but also fascinated.” You walk over, daring to place a hand on the back of his shoulder.

“I just think they’re neat little creatures,” you tell him. “They’re all different species and they’re all girls. I can take one out if you--?”

“No thanks,” Chris says quickly, a blush flushing across his cheeks. Cute. “I’m good with the glass between us.” You grin.

“Thought so,” you say.

“Do they have names?” Chris asks.

“Yeah,” you say, pointing to each enclosure in turn: “That’s Wednesday, Elvira, Maila, Vera Ellen but I call her Baby, Amanda, Reagan, Sidney, Maggie, and Laurie.”

“Oh my god,” Chris says. “They’re all horror names.”

“Yep,” you say, smiling, because that’s the first time someone’s gotten the reference on the first go. “All my favorite spooky ladies.”

“Which one’s Laurie?” Chris asks, and you point to one on the bottom shelf, a _t. stirmi_ , the biggest of the bunch. Chris squats down to get a closer look.

“She’s the biggest tarantula species in the whole world,” you say, trying to stifle the urge to completely info-dump at this poor man. “She’s not full grown. Due to molt and grow a little very soon. She hasn’t been eating.”

“Jesus,” Chris mumbles. “She _is_ huge.” She’s half out of her cork bark hide, her front legs and pedipalps out on her web mat, eyes glinting in the light. “And she gets _bigger_?”

“She’s about eight inches right now,” you tell him. “I’d have to unpack it but I have her old exoskeletons. She’ll hit eleven or twelve.”

“There’s definitely a dick joke here somewhere, but it’s not coming to me,” Chris remarks, and you swat him, despite your laughter.

“Don’t be gross,” you giggle. “But really. She’s actually a sweetheart.”

“You ever been bitten?” Chris asks.

“Nope,” you say. Chris nods, just looking between the enclosures. 

“Well. Good to know if the building ever gets broken into and they hit up your place they’ll be hauling ass outta here just as fast.”

“Benefits of owning giant spiders,” you say.

“You should see my _Halloween_ tattoo,” Chris says, which devolves into a whole lot of horror movie discussion. Chris ends up helping unpack some DVDs, sharing some of his tattoos, and bringing over a couple vanilla Cokes from his own fridge. He even gives you his phone number in case you need anything but doesn’t want yours in return -- he wants you to know he’s not going to bother you first unsolicited. Which. Chris is. Really sweet.

When he heads back to his own apartment and you shut the door, you maybe have to take a very long breath to clear your head. Just maybe.

//

A couple days go by. You settle in, only catching Chris once downstairs checking his mail on your way out. Friday comes, tarantula feeding day, and predictably, everyone eats their cricket except for Laurie, but she’s long overdue for a molt anyway. You order food in and settle in to binge some Netflix when you notice Laurie has flipped over onto her back -- she’s _finally_ molting. After who knows how long. You’d have to check your phone for her last molt date.

By the end of the night when you’re about to go to bed, things have gone bad.

She’s taking longer than usual. She’s still on her back hours later, which. Red flag. You lean down, shine your phone's flashlight on her. 

Oh no. 

She’s most of the way out of her molt, except for one leg that’s still mostly stuck, her back left. She’s kicked her exoskeleton most of the way off of her, the other seven legs curled up and flexing as she stretches out, fresh fangs translucent white against her red mouth. 

She’s still alive. But if she doesn’t get her leg out, she won’t be much longer. 

Fuck. _Fuck_. Panic mode. You knew this could happen, but it usually only happens with humidity issues — maybe with the move, things have been off? Of all the times you’d watched this happen on tarantula youtube, there’s no way you’re prepared to deal with this right now. Alone. At 2 in the morning. In a new town. Where you don’t know anyone. Except your across the hall neighbor that you kind of have a crush on. 

Fuck. 

You turn every light in the apartment on and pull Laurie’s enclosure out into the middle of the floor. Autopilot. Grabbing your tweezers and nail scissors and superglue. Sitting on the floor. Taking the lid off her enclosure. Putting it right back on. 

There’s no way you can handle this. 

Not alone. 

Which is how you end up with your phone in your hand and a text message to Chris being drafted. Saying it’s you. Asking if he’s up. The flood of relief when the ellipses bubble pops up. 

_**I’m up. night owl. everything okay?** _

_**Tarantula emergency. Can you come over?** _

The read receipt pops up. It’s not even thirty seconds before there’s a knock on the door. Light spills out into the hallway when you open it to see Chris still pulling a Slipknot shirt on in his haste to get here. He’s wearing Halloween pajama pants even though it isn’t Halloween. 

“Okay so,” you say, voice coming out shakier than expected, “you don’t need to do anything; I just — it’s Laurie; she’s having a bad molt and I can’t handle this by myself right now and you’re the only person I know here.” Chris steps in, sees the enclosure on the floor. 

“Is she alive?” Chris asks. You shut the door and drop back onto the floor, taking the lid off. Chris sits across from you, peers in. 

“She is right now,” you say. You grab your tweezers, point out the stuck leg. “This leg is stuck in her old exoskeleton and it needs to either come out or come off and I don’t know what to do.” The tips of the tweezers clatter together as your hand shakes. 

“Is she supposed to be on her back?” Chris asks, which reminds you he knows next to nothing about tarantulas. 

“Right, yeah, so,” you say quickly, panicky, “she’s on her back to shed her exoskeleton because she’s outgrown it. It’s basically like wiggling out of really tight pants.”

“I own vinyl pants; been there,” Chris jokes, which makes you huff a laugh. Welcome distraction if only for a second. 

“Right, so. This leg is caught. Because either her leg has already hardened up inside it or it was too dry so her exoskeleton is stuck to it like plastic wrap. Either way. Death sentence if I don’t do something. But I’m freaking the fuck out.”

“Hey, breathe,” Chris says, his voice soft, easing. “Do you know what to do?” You take a long, shuddering breath. 

“Yeah,” you say. “I gotta either cut her leg out or get her to drop the whole leg herself. Like how lizards can drop their tails? It’ll grow back. But.” 

“Okay,” Chris says. He nods. “Do you want me to put my phone flashlight on her for you?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Thanks.” With the light on her, you can see where you’d need to cut. 

“Do you think you could cut away some of the extra old skin to make it easier?” Chris asks. You pick the nail scissors up, but your hands still shake. 

“Yeah, I think so,” you say, probably sounding very uneasy. You pause, tweezers in your opposite hand, going to reach in, then stopping again. “Fuck. This goes against everything they tell you not to do with a molting tarantula. You’re not even supposed to touch the enclosure, let alone the spider—“

Chris says your name. You look up at him. 

“You can do this,” Chris says. “You can either try your best and maybe save her, or not do anything and for sure have it turn out bad. Right?” You nod, eyes welling up. “I’m here. You got this.”

“Okay,” you say. “Okay.” Carefully, your hands shaking a little still, you grab her exoskeleton with the tweezers, and Laurie flinches away a little. “Sorry baby girl,” you whisper, “I know.” Chris adjusts the light as you bring the nail scissors down, snipping away a little bit at a time. 

“You’re doing awesome,” Chris says. You sniff, blinking away tears as the last bit is cut, and you’re able to pull away the rest of her exuvium, pull it out of her enclosure. “There you go,” Chris says, reaching over to close his hand around your wrist. “First part’s done.”

“Yeah,” you say, nodding, turning your hand over a little to curl your fingers around the tweezers enough to touch his wrist back. “Okay. I don’t know if I can get in there to cut it off her leg.”

“You wanna try?” Chris asks. “If you need help steadying your hand I can hold your arm.” You swear under your breath, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand, stifling tears. 

“Okay,” you say. You turn her enclosure a little and shift closer to Chris, so you’re knee to knee, and he wraps his hand around your forearm, steadying you. “Please don’t jump if she moves suddenly?”

“I can make no promises but I will do my best,” Chris says. You smile weakly. Here goes. 

You grasp the tip of her leg with the tweezers, extending it just enough to get the scissors against her femur. The tip of the blade slips between her old exoskeleton and the new one. Chris’s grip keeps your hand steady as you snip. 

“Alright,” Chris says quietly. “You’re doing great, babe.” Your heart pounds as you slide the scissors up further, cut again. “Everything still good?”

“Yeah,” you say. “I don’t see any fluid so she isn’t bleeding.” 

“Good,” Chris says. You nod with him, getting to the first joint, so you check with the tweezers to make sure she’s not still caught. 

“Okay, yeah,” you say, “that’s good. Okay.” 

“This is so crazy,” Chris says. “I can’t believe I’m helping a cute girl cut a Goliath bird eating tarantula out of its exoskeleton.” You pause, look at him. 

“You know the species she is?” you ask, which is apparently what jumps out more than the fact that he called you cute. 

“I googled,” Chris says. “Since you said she’s the biggest species. So.” Your eyebrows tilt up, because. He actually looked up something you like? To impress you? Or genuine curiosity? Either way. He knows. 

“Oh,” you say. He squeezes your wrist. 

“You’re almost there,” Chris says.

“Right,” you say quickly. “Yeah.” You look back down, adjust Laurie’s leg ever so slightly, slip the scissors up the second joint. Snip. With a tug, the last bit of her exoskeleton comes sliding the rest of the way off, and you sob once from sheer relief as you pull it away. Chris wraps his other arm around your shoulders, pulls you in. 

“See, I knew you could do it,” Chris says. You sniffle, wiping away tears with your tweezers hand, his hand still tight on the one holding the scissors. 

“Thank you,” you sob, pushing your face into Chris’s shoulder, his body warm comfort. 

“Will she live?” Chris asks. He lets go of your arm to pet your hair. 

“She won’t die for sure,” you say, “which is better than before. Chris. Thank you. I couldn’t have done this on my own.”

“I’m sure you could have,” Chris says, “but I’m glad I could help you.” You take a long breath and look down at Laurie, who is now flexing and stretching the leg along with the rest of them. 

“Will you stay till she turns back over?” you ask softly. “That’s when I’ll feel better.”

“Sure,” Chris says. “Anything you need.” Chris lets you set your tweezers and scissors aside and sits against the couch, so you sit on the floor next to him, leaning into his side. He gathers you up in his arms as you watch Laurie shift, stretch her legs up, still soft like little noodles. Dozens and dozens of molts through all your years of having tarantulas and still, you feel helpless and unprepared, even after doing all you can. “So does she actually eat birds?” Chris asks, which makes you laugh once, an earnest laugh.

“She _could_ , but no,” you say, sniffing, wiping away the last of your tears. “She eats crickets.”

“Neat,” Chris murmurs. It’s quiet for a long moment. You tilt your head up, and Chris is already looking down at you. He brushes the hair off your forehead and presses his lips to it, a firm kiss. “I knew you could handle it,” Chris says, his mouth still against your skin. 

“Save your judgement till she decides whether to drop the leg or not,” you remark, lifting your head a little, and Chris giggles. He glances over.

“She’s turning over, I think,” Chris says, and when you look back over at her, she’s rolling herself over back onto her legs. You sigh. That’s a really good sign.

“My sweet baby girl,” you say, rolling forward onto your knees to peer in at her. “You’re a badass. I’ll leave you alone now, okay?” You place her enclosure lid back on and latch it. “You did great.” When you look back at Chris, there’s a smile splitting his face. “What?”

“Just think it’s cute you’re calling a tarantula bigger than your face a sweet baby girl is all,” he says. “I just think you’re cute in general.”

When you kiss him it tastes like toothpaste. Laurie doesn’t drop the leg.

**Author's Note:**

> ao3userfeistycadavers.tumblr.com


End file.
